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by the neck and
filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim
memories of something seen long ago on a wall or a hoarding -- a vast
bottle composed of electric lights which seemed to move up and down and
pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked almost
black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had a sour-sweet
smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with frank curiosity.
'It is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You will have
read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I
am afraid.' His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: 'I think
it is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To
Emmanuel Goldstein.'
Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing
he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr.
Charrington's half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic
past